Dead Giveaway (8 page)

  Her tenth-floor office was housed in a smoked-glass high-rise right off the freeway. When I entered suite 1012, a woman in her late fifties wearing glasses and a vintage navy suit with pale blue piping on the lapels flew into the waiting area the minute I arrived. She nearly tripped over a child-size table and chairs piled with books and puzzles.

  ''Hi,'' I said, extending my hand. ''I'm—''

  ''You're late. You must never be late in this business. Now get in here.'' She grabbed my wrist and pulled me through the waiting area into an office populated by enough stuffed animals, cartoon posters, dolls and toys to rival a Disney World gift shop.

  The woman squinted at me through lenses so thick they magnified her dark eyes and made her look like a koala bear.

  ''What's happened to you?'' she said. Her voice sounded like the Molly Roth I'd spoken with the other day but with the frantic button turned on. ''You did something different to your hair. And we talked about clothes. No clingy T-shirts like this.'' She pulled at my pink V-neck and appraised the rest of me. ''The khakis are okay, but—''

  ''Ms. Roth, I think you've mistaken me for someone else. I'm Abby Rose. Remember, we spoke on the phone and—''

  ''You're not Julie?'' She craned her neck and moved in so close we were practically nose to nose. ''God, you're
not.
Okay, you're new. Do you have a criminal background? And don't lie to me, because if I get you this job and find out later you lied, I'll—''

  ''We have an appointment, Ms. Roth,'' I cut in. ''About a case you worked for CPS.''

  Roth blinked, her jaw slack. Then came the dawn of realization. ''Oh. That's
today
?''

  ''Yes, ma'am,'' I said.

  ''I really don't have time for you. A nanny hasn't shown and—''

  A cell phone twirped from its resting place on Roth's cluttered desk. Papers went flying everywhere when she swooped down on the phone. She flipped it open and said, ''Julie? Where in heaven are you?''

  I saw color rise up the woman's pale neck and

scorch her cheeks. ''Oh. Yes. Of course. That's right. Thank you for checking in.''

  Roth closed her phone and then her body went slack, her arms limp at her sides. ''Today is
Monday.
Did you know that?''

  ''Um, yes. That's when you told me to be here.''

  ''And Monday is
not
Tuesday.''

  ''Not last time I checked.'' Why did I have the feeling I'd be getting absolutely nowhere with this interview?

  Roth smiled, adjusted her glasses. ''But that's a good thing, Ms. Rose. No child is without their nanny because today is Monday. Now. How can I help you?''

  ''Um, could we sit down?''

  ''Yes, certainly. Absolutely.'' She glanced around in what I assumed was her usual agitated fashion and scooped up a pile of folders and neon stuffed fish off the chair that faced her desk. Then she opened a closet to my left and tossed them inside, quickly shutting the door before the other thousand things inside fell out.

  She gestured at the empty chair. ''There. Sit. Coffee?''

  ''No,'' I said quickly. Besides the fact that I'd sworn off coffee, she might need a year to find the pot.

  She took a seat behind her desk and started stacking papers, her nervous fingers less than effective at organizing them into piles. She finally shoved everything to one side and rested folded hands on the desk in front of her. ''Now, what are we here for today?''

  ''Do you remember our conversation last week when I called?'' I asked.

  ''It's been so hectic, Ms. Rose. You sell yellow roses or something, right? I suppose if one of my nannies showed up with roses her first day on the job that
would
be a nice touch, so I'm listening.'' She blinked and smiled and blinked those big eyes a few more times.

  Definitely no one home in there. Funny how phone conversations just don't give you the full picture. ''Ac tually, I work for Yellow Rose Investigations. I'm a private detective who specializes in adoption cases. You once worked for CPS in Liberty County. My client, Will Knight, was in your care for—''

  ''The Knights! Yes! Sweet people. Good foster parents.''

  ''They ended up adopting a baby you placed with them. But you knew that, right?''

  ''Certainly I knew that.'' But Roth looked more confused than a mosquito in a nudist colony. ''Why didn't we do this over the phone? I mean, it's not like I know much more than you seem to know.''

  ''You were busy when I called the other day and said you'd rather speak in person. Said you'd be able to recall the case better if I gave you some time.''

  ''That's right. Well . . . hmmm. Let me think.'' She bit her lower lip.

  ''Did you happen to save any old notes?'' I asked, so full of hope and
so
kidding myself.

  She pointed at me and smiled. ''Yes. Old notes. I could have done that. Where would they be?''

  Obviously this woman couldn't pour pee out of a boot if the instructions were printed on the heel. ''Maybe I could ask you a few questions and the memories will begin to flow.'' I said this sweetly, rather like a nanny telling a bedtime story.

  ''Yes. That might work.'' More blinking.

  ''A baby was left on a doorstep. A mixed-race child.''

  ''Right. The police called me, but I couldn't get out that night. My car wouldn't start. To this day I have a problem with the whole gas, oil change, maintenance thing. But I'm learning.''

  ''Burl Rollins, the officer you spoke to, took care of the baby overnight.''

  ''Yes. Nice man. His wife was a doll, too. We played bunko together. Did you know that?''

  ''Interesting,'' I said. And irrelevant. ''Did you ever meet the Olsens, the people who discovered the child on their porch?''

  She thought for a second. ''I
did
meet her. She came to my office, but, what was that about?''

  ''I'm hoping you can tell me,'' I prompted.

  Molly Roth squeezed her eyes shut, her expression pained. ''Recalling conversations from years ago is very difficult. Maybe you could tell me what Mrs. Olsen has to do with any of this, because she was never a part of that child's life aside from calling out the authorities. The baby was placed in foster care, adopted and gone from Bottlebrush quickly.''

  ''I hate to tell you this, but Verna Mae Olsen was murdered Friday night, right after she met with that now grown-up abandoned baby. She knew all about him—had for years, as matter of fact.''

  Roth leaned back in her chair, her face blanching with shock. ''My heavens. What a way to start the week.''

  ''I'm working with the police on this case, and we really need your help. Please think hard, tell me everything you can recall.''

  ''Okay. Help me out. What year was the child abandoned again?''

  ''Late in 1987.''

  She rubbed her index finger under her bright red lips. ''Hmm. What did Mrs. Olsen want with me that day she came to the office?''

  ''Did she want to talk about Will? Maybe learn where he would be placed?''

  ''No. Besides, I wouldn't have told her. Not that I was the best caseworker on the planet, but there were things I could and couldn't say to people.''

  ''If she did ask about his foster care placement perhaps you told her that was confidential information?''

  Roth's face brightened with realization. ''Foster care! That's it. She asked about becoming a foster parent.''

  ''Because she wanted to be
Will's
foster parent?'' I recalled how Verna Mae had bristled when I brought up the subject.

  ''No . . . it was after he'd been placed, and if I recall, she never mentioned him. I don't think we ever put a child in her home, though.''

  ''Why was that?''

  ''Could be we lost her information during the breakin, along with the other things those vandals destroyed. Yes. In fact, I'm sure that's what happened. Funny she never reapplied . . .''

  ''Break-in?''

  ''I kept cash in the office—to help families buy diapers or groceries or pay rent. Emergency fund. Couple hundred dollars. CPS really does do good work trying to keep families together. Anyway, someone, or maybe more than one someone, broke in and stole the money. It wasn't a big secret I had petty cash, considering I handed out quite a bit throughout the county. Had to be young people responsible, because they trashed the place. Burned things, wrote graffiti on the wall. Adolescent acting-out, we presumed.''

  ''Must have been upsetting,'' I said.

  ''Yes. What a mess they made. Even delayed that abandoned child's permanent placement. Everything was nearly finalized. His file went missing along with several others—probably burned, since we found a pile of ashes to go along with the spray-painted walls and overturned file cabinets.''

  Now
this
was important. ''This happened after your visit from Verna Mae?''

  ''After. Like I said, her paperwork probably was destroyed, too.''

  Destroyed because Verna Mae applied to be a foster parent to size up the place? Though I couldn't see her breaking and entering, she could have paid someone to steal Will's information. ''The police believed juveniles were the culprits? You don't think Verna Mae could have had anything to do with it?''

  ''She couldn't have knocked over those heavy cabinets. And those curse words on the wall? Had to be adolescents.''

  ''Other paperwork went missing, you say?''

  ''Yes. What a nightmare. Delayed several place

ments. I wasn't very good with all the paper I generated, anyway. Then to have files crumpled, destroyed, burned. Well, it set me back awhile. It's not like they give caseworkers a secretary.''

  I asked a few more questions, but concluded I'd squeezed everything I could out of her. Besides, when she asked if I might like a job caring for children, I got out of there as quick as chained lightning with a snapped link. After I got behind the wheel of my car, I hunted in my bag for Burl's business card. I wanted to ask him if he had any knowledge of this so-called vandalism in the CPS office.

  A dull throb had begun at the back of my skull, and I had a feeling the coffee withdrawal was beginning despite the green tea fixes. The thought of drinking even one sip of java still made my stomach flip over. Once I got back on the road, my first stop would be for a Diet Coke.

  I found Burl's number, dialed his cell and said ''Hi'' when he answered on the second ring. ''I could use a little help.''

  ''Shoot,'' he answered, ''but make it quick. Got a court date in thirty minutes.''

  ''Do you remember a break-in at the CPS office sometime after Will was placed with the Knights?''

  ''No, but the CPS office isn't in Bottlebrush. I wouldn't have been involved. I can try to find out, though. When was this?''

  I told him about my conversation with Molly Roth.

  ''Come by later today and I might have something on it.''

  ''Come by?''

  ''Yes, ma'am. And bring Will. I have the keys to the house.''

  ''Already?''

  ''There's still a few legalities, but Verna Mae used the lawyer as the executor and that sped things up. He says Will can take possession.''

  ''Okay. We'll be there.''

7

About four Monday afternoon, after Will and I stopped at the lab to get his blood drawn for the DNA comparison, we arrived at the Bottlebrush police station. Green-gray mold crept along the walls under the gutter of the beige brick flat-roofed building. From the style, the station must have dated back to the sixties, and obviously the sun did not shine on the front door of Bottlebrush PD.

  A white patrol car sat parked in front alongside Burl's Land Rover. The Rover's navy blue paint glittered in the late-afternoon sun like it had been washed and waxed this morning.

  ''Nice ride,'' Will said, nodding in appreciation as we walked by.

  ''Burl Rollins is obviously a man who's proud of his horse,'' I answered.

  Will held the door for me, and we entered the station. Burl was sitting behind a waist-high counter and stood to greet us.

  ''This can't be that ten-pound baby that spent the night with me.'' Burl, who wore a short-sleeved blue shirt and purple necktie circa 1970, grinned like he'd eaten a banana sideways. He came around the counter and shook Will's hand, gripping the kid's shoulder with his other.

  I wasn't even acknowledged until their happy reunion ended about thirty seconds later.

  Finally Burl looked at me. ''Thanks for coming, Abby. I'll get Mary to cover the phone so we can talk. She's on break.'' He disappeared down a short hall behind the counter and returned a few seconds later with a young black woman in a brown uniform. She held half a sandwich in her hand and nodded at us before taking the seat Burl had been occupying when we arrived. Only two cops. Big change from my visit to HPD on Saturday, where officers were as thick as bats under a San Antonio bridge.

  The gun belt strapped around Burl's waist seemed to dance with his steps as he led us to his office, a room about twice the size of my closet, though far neater. One entire wall was lined with filing cabinets, and labeled boxes were stacked to the ceiling. He had made room for pictures of his family on the table behind him, right next to the computer. The woman that I assume I'd spoken to on the phone the other night was flanked by three teenage boys. The youngest had a smile crammed with braces.

  We all sat, Burl behind his desk and Will and I in folding chairs across from him.

  ''Three boys?'' I said. ''Bet that's a challenge.''

  ''Smells pretty bad at our house some days. Sorta like a locker room, huh, Will?''

  They both laughed while I inwardly winced in sympathy for Mrs. Rollins.

  ''Let's get down to business,'' Burl said, looking at me. ''Did you mention our, uh, theory about Verna Mae to Will?''

  ''He's aware she might have been his mother,'' I said.

  Will folded his huge hands in his lap and stared at them.

  ''How do you feel about that, son?'' Burl asked.

  ''It is what it is,'' he answered softly.

  ''I'm sure Abby's told you it may not be true. For proof, we'll need your DNA. I can grab something of Verna Mae's for hers.''

  ''Actually,'' I said, ''HPD is already on that.''

  ''Oh,'' Burl said.

  I sensed his disappointment, affirmation of my earlier guess that he wanted a part in this investigation. I could see why. This was his town, his unsolved case.

  ''Sergeant Kline isn't even sure Will's abandonment has anything to do with Verna Mae's murder,'' I said, ''but in case it does, he wants to know if she was Will's biological mother.''

  ''I understand.'' Burl looked at Will. ''The probate lawyer been in touch yet?''

  ''Um, no.'' Will seemed a little confused by the question.

  ''He said I can turn the keys over to you.'' Burl pulled open the middle desk drawer and took out an envelope, which he slid toward Will.

  ''She had a spare set of keys?'' I said.

  ''Yup. Hanging right there on a hook in the kitchen. So unless some relatives appear out of nowhere to contest the will, the place is yours, son. She owned about two acres. Lots of renovations done, I noticed. 'Course, my last visit before this week was a long time ago. The place probably needed them. I'm guessing that house and land are worth a pretty penny.''

  Will turned and stared at me. ''What do I with a house, Abby? The only thing I know about houses is that the trim needs painting every five years, and when you're as tall as I am, it's your job. The only other thing I know how to do is cut the lawn.''

  ''You can hire someone for those chores,'' Burl said with a laugh. ''See, that's another reason I asked you to come. She had money, too.''

  ''Money? No one said anything about money.'' Will looked at me. ''This is so frickin' weird. I didn't even
know
that lady.''

  ''She thought she knew you well enough to give you about two hundred grand,'' Burl said.

  Will looked stunned, and maybe I did, too, since I became aware of a beautiful mahogany clock on top of the bookcase. I only noticed because the room grew so quiet you could hear it tick-tick-ticking above us.

  Will finally broke the silence. ''This isn't like winning the lottery. You know what I'm saying? The lottery makes you think about cars and vacations and stuff like that. This? This I don't like.''

  I patted Will's shoulder. ''Don't stress until we know more. We'll figure it out, okay?''

  Will blinked several times, lips tight, then said, ''Okay. Sure.'' He didn't look all that sure, though.

  I faced Burl. ''Does Sergeant Kline know about this money?''

  ''Yes, ma'am. I just finished talking to him before you two got here. I mean, that's enough cash to kill for. And I'm not talkin' about you, son,'' Burl said to Will. ''Someone might have thought they were due an inheritance and hurried Verna Mae to her grave to get their hands on it.''

  ''Friends or relatives or what?'' I asked.

  ''Far as I can tell she had nobody, but maybe Jasper had relatives and those folks thought they'd be Verna Mae's logical choice to inherit.''

  ''Jasper? Why does that name sound familiar?'' Will asked.

  ''Verna Mae's late husband,'' I answered.

  ''Oh. Right. She talked about him the other day.'' Will was trying to maintain his calm, but his flushed cheeks and clenched fists told me different.

  ''Jasper was a mean one,'' Burl said, shaking his head. ''My wife would have my hide if she heard me speaking ill of the dead, but he's gone and his ornery spirit is gone with him. What matters is the man was a plumber. Self-employed and by no means rich. Where the heck did Verna Mae get all that money? Far as I know, she never worked outside the home.''

  ''Maybe all her relatives died and left everything to her,'' I said.

  ''Possible,'' Burl said. ''Anyway, your guy Kline is on it. Said he'd be checking her bank records.''

  ''My guy?'' I said, failing to filter my thoughts before they spilled from my mouth.

  This brought a smile from Will for the first time since he'd shaken hands with Burl. ''How'd you figure out they're into each other, Chief?''

  ''You think I came in on a load of turnips, son?'' He laughed, and so did Will.

  ''Could we move on?'' I was definitely feeling uncomfortable.

  ''Sure. What else do you need?'' Burl asked.

  ''That break-in at the CPS office?'' I'd filled Will in on Molly Roth on the drive here, so he was aware of the lost paperwork.

  ''Oh, yeah,'' Burl said. ''County's sheriff's office people are digging through their old cases. They were the investigating agency on that one. Lucky I got friends over there, 'cause even with connections, it might take awhile for them to come up with anything.''

  ''Thanks. Did you want to ask Burl any questions, Will?'' I know I would have if I was him, considering Will once spent the night in the man's house.

  Will hesitated, pursed his lips a few times before speaking. ''What happened that night, Chief? I mean, when you came and got me?''

  Burl leaned back, his hands clasping his silver belt buckle. ''It was Jasper who called. Pissed as hell. But then, he stayed that way. When I got to the house, you were sound asleep in that little plastic infant seat. Too big for it, but I had to make do when I carried you over to my place in my truck. Strapped the seat belt around you. My wife was thrilled I brought you home, even if for just one night.''

  Will smiled briefly, then said, ''But what about them? The Olsens? You said Mr. Olsen was mad.''

  ''Like I said. He stayed that way.''

  ''What was
she
like?'' Will asked.

  ''You want to know everything, huh?''

  ''I
need
to know. Especially if she was my birth mother.''

  ''Okay. I won't lie. Verna Mae wasn't quite right in the head, and that particular night she was crying so bad, Jasper sent her to the bedroom. Practically pushed her down the hallway. He told me she'd been saying how they could keep you, pretend you were theirs. Jasper had a good laugh about that.'' Burl cast his gaze downward, obviously embarrassed.

  ''He laughed?'' I said.

  Burl looked at Will. ''We should just skip the rest, son. You don't need to hear what some ignorant redneck had to say. Everything worked out great for you. The way you carry yourself, the way you play ball, everything about you says you've been raised right.''

  ''Tell me why he laughed.'' Will's tone had gone hard, out of character for him. ''Tell me now.''

  Burl shifted in his chair, avoiding eye contact with both of us. ''Okay, he said Verna Mae was stupid to think she could pass you off as theirs. Said he wasn't having any black baby in his house for one more second.''

  Will stared at his hands, his long fingers intertwined and white-knuckled with tension. ''That's what I figured. Thanks for being honest.''

  A tense silence followed before I said, ''Guess we're done here.'' I started to get up, then remembered the blanket. ''You really don't need that blanket now, right?''

  ''I collected the blanket as evidence during an executed search warrant, so yes I do,'' Burl said evenly.

  ''But it probably has nothing to do with Verna Mae's death.''

  ''
Probably
is your key word, Abby. If I give it up and the blanket turns out to be even remotely connected to the murder, the thing's worthless as evidence.''

  ''How could an old blanket be connected to her murder?'' Damn, I hate to hear no. Made me want the stupid thing even more.

  ''Don't know, but the blanket stays with me, and when I have proof it's not important, then it's yours with Will's permission. I learned long ago, you collect evidence, you keep evidence until you're sure it's worthless. I'm a careful man, Abby Rose, a trait that's served me well in the police business.'' The country charm had been turned off. He meant business.

  ''A few pictures wouldn't break your chain of evidence, would it?'' I had to leave with something, because that DNA test might turn out far different than what we expected. Besides, that blanket was linked to Will's past, if not to his birth parents. I was learning to be careful myself.

  Burl sighed. ''Guess pictures wouldn't hurt.''

  While Burl unfolded a step stool and climbed up to reach one of the stacked file boxes, Will looked at me.

  ''I'm glad she didn't keep me,'' he said. ''I'm telling my mom and dad how much I love them the minute I get home.''

  I patted his knee. ''Good idea.'' I took my camera phone from my purse.

  After cleaning off his desk, Burl laid out several sheets of blank white paper and placed the creamcolored blanket on these.

  I snapped off a few shots.

  Will leaned forward for a better look. ''You think this was mine? It doesn't look all that old.''

  ''The blanket itself is well-preserved, but check out the label.'' Burl turned over one corner so I could photograph the label.

  The small rectangular piece of satin had yellowed with age, and the stitching on the edges was frayed. Underneath the embroidered words HANDMADE FOR POSH PRAMS I now saw something else—100% HANDSPUN NEW WOOL. I'd had little chance to notice this the first time, seeing as how Burl had commandeered the thing almost immediately. If the word ''posh'' didn't make it sound expensive, ''hand-spun wool'' certainly did.